Chapter 4
Oliver worked on the mailing list all week. He tried not to think about Jacky, although she came into his mind regularly, especially at night. Her big eyes held him before he fell asleep; her body was just out of reach.
When he wasn’t sitting in front of the computer, he worked on the walnut box. He finished the dovetails. Fitting the bottom of the box was a puzzle. He had cut it to rest inside; it had to be supported just above the low bottom arches. He didn’t want to put screws through the sides of the box, and if he put supporting ledger strips on the inside, the bottom would be raised too high. He fastened a small block to the lower inside of each corner. The blocks strengthened the feet of the box and supported the bottom just above the arches. He was satisfied with that solution, but when he pushed the bottom down on the blocks it did not fit perfectly flush against all four sides. The cracks bothered him.
By Friday, after much experimenting, he had made tiny moldings to cover the cracks. “Thank God for routers,’’ he said to Jennifer Lindenthwaite. “Took me about five tries, but I did it.’’
“I wish Rupert had your talent,’’ she sighed.
“It’s not talent; it’s pig-headedness.’’
“Pigs are sweet, really,’’ Jennifer said. “They get a bad rap.’’ She stood. “Let’s see the program.’’
She liked what he’d done and asked him whether Jacky had approved it.
“Jacky said that, as long as I included everything that she wanted, you should be the judge—since you would have to use it and train others to use it.’’
“It looks good to me,’’ Jennifer said. “I’ll have Mary mail you a check on Tuesday. We pay bills on Tuesdays.’’
“Thanks.’’
“It was good of you to help, Oliver. We may have to call on you again. I think you should be entitled to a member discount. We have some nice trips lined up this summer—day trips, and a canoe trip: Marsh, Myth, and Earth Mother.’’
“Sounds buggy,’’ he said.
“Oh, Oliver! Tents, silly. No–see–um netting.’’
“The cry of the loon across the night,’’ Oliver interrupted.
“Right,’’ she said. “Drumming for Gaia is a popular trip. Sometimes I go along—quality control, you know.’’
“Inspector Jennifer,’’ Oliver said. She reached for his arm, to shove him or to slap him, but she stopped herself.
“Marshmallows,’’ she said.
“Now you’re talking. I’ll let you know,’’ he said, ducking out.
“We’ll put you on the mailing list.’’
“Great,’’ he called over his shoulder.
He went shopping for hardware. He found brass strap hinges and a hasp and a lock that were well–matched. He would inlay the hinges—a pain in the neck—but the brass would be fine with the walnut.
Oliver made progress on the box. He was pleased that evening as he described it to Jacky. She listened quietly and waited for him to finish. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. She was wearing a black silk blouse that fell loosely over white jeans. She stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in leather huaraches, and looked at him closely.
Oliver felt the moment approach. He had been in a different world all week; it was time to return. Jacky’s face was firm and concentrated, her eyebrows raised slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt again the thrill of surrendering. He was hers. He wanted to be hers. He gave himself to her utterly.
That evening and the ones that followed, once or twice a week, continued the pattern. She beat him and humiliated him, bound him to her pleasure, taught him how to massage her after a hot shower and how she wanted oral sex. It was an alternate universe that existed only in her house and only for a few intense hours at a time. His reward was to be allowed to come at her command as she counted slowly to twenty or twenty-five. If he came too soon or not at her number, she whipped him with a riding quirt. “You are not thinking of me. You are doing this for ME!’’ He learned to think only of her as he masturbated, or, less often, as she worked him with her hand. When he dedicated himself completely, she counted him to orgasm at the perfect moment; she was pleased; there was no whipping.
They went out to dinner several times, a normal experience—at least externally. Beneath the conversation, Oliver was well aware of what was coming after dessert. She would encourage him to be assertive and then she would pull him back, reminding him of his place with a glance or a small smile, a good natured cat and mouse game.
She told him about the two older brothers who had bullied her on the basketball court. She was a power forward in high school but too small for the team at the University of New Hampshire. “Same game, different scale,’’ she said. “I should have been a guard.’’ Oliver was impressed. She had trained to be a referee and still reffed high school games.
“You just like the uniform,’’ he teased. “The black shoes.’’
“You’d like one of them on the back of your neck,’’ she said. “I know you, Oliver.’’ He was rewarded that night.
Late one afternoon, toward the end of June, Jacky called. “I need you to come over,’’ she said and hung up. This was unusual; their meetings were always planned in advance.
“Oh, oh, Verdi. She’s not happy.’’
Things were going well for a change. The Wetlands Conservancy had asked him to recommend and install an accounting system. They’d gotten a generous donation, Jennifer told him, from a bank. “Did you know that Jacky Chapelle is on the Board?’’
“I didn’t,’’ he said, surprised.
Jacky smiled when he asked her about it. “Community money,’’ she said.
“Small community,’’ Oliver said.
“Keep it in the family,’’ she laughed.
The marinas were filled with white boats. Bikers and pedestrians were crossing the bridge in both directions. Oliver parked in Jacky’s driveway. “Hi, Bubbles,’’ he said. That was a mistake.
“I’ve had a disappointing day.’’
“I’m sorry,’’ he said instantly. Her eyes narrowed and she pointed to the bedroom.
“Everything off.’’
He undressed quickly and knelt by the bed. She gave him the rubber ball and handcuffed him. “Bastards,’’ she said and swung the ruler. Oliver groaned for her. He had learned to wait out the initial blows. When she hit faster, she didn’t hit as hard. It seemed that groaning sped her up.
“Don’t bullshit me, Goddamn it!’’ What? She cracked him hard twice, paused for breath, and then hit him twice more. “Bastards,’’ she said again. She took her time, winding up for each swing, not speeding up. Oliver began to groan for real. He squeezed the ball, but he was losing control. He thought of getting up and running away, but he was handcuffed and naked.
“Cry, why don’t you?’’ She cracked him again. She was deliberate. “Cry!’’ Boys don’t. “Cry!’’ Crack. “Who am I?’’ Crack.
“Mistress,’’ he managed.
“Damn you.’’ She hit him again. A hot tear squeezed from the corner of his left eye.
“Cry!’’ Crack.
“Please,’’ he said. Crack. “Please.’’ Tears began to fall.
“Yes,’’ she said. “More.’’ Crack. He fell forward sobbing, helpless, howling each time she struck him. He cried so convulsively, so hard, that he didn’t register the moment when she stopped and began to rub his shoulders, comforting him. He hadn’t cried like that since he was a baby.
“Get up on the bed and turn over.’’ She took off her jeans and panties, put them on the chair, and came back from the dresser with a condom. Oliver lay on his back, numb and floating, as she teased and rolled the condom into place. Her eyes were huge as she straddled him. “Fifty,’’ she said.
He wiggled into position and gave himself to her voice and the long slow thrusts of her body. At thirty, her voice cracked. By forty, she was whispering and beginning to tremble. At forty-five, she gasped sharply and slumped forward. She caught
and braced herself with her hands on his shoulders, crying out with each new number as he strained up into her. At fifty, he exploded; a blind white jet took them drenched and mingled into the universe. He heard her laughing in the nebulae, and then he collapsed. She lowered herself forward. A button dug into his chest. Her hair pressed against his cheek. Awkwardly, he brought his arms over her head and cradled her as best he could.
She was half off when he awoke. She removed the condom and came back wearing a white bathrobe. “You are beautiful,’’ she said, pulling tight the cotton belt of her robe. He felt his cheeks glowing. “Beautiful. Would you like some tea?’’
“No, thank you.’’ She nodded and released the handcuffs. He dressed slowly, feeling each movement of his body as though it were for the first time. Jacky watched silently. He always left as soon as he was dressed. “Good night—Mistress.’’ His voice was quiet.
“Behave yourself,’’ she said, looking at him thoughtfully.
He was on the bridge before he realized that he was driving and had better be careful. He was hungry. Alberta’s. Why not? He found a parking spot, walked into his favorite restaurant, and got the last open table, in a far corner of the upper level.
“How are we, tonight?’’ Claudine asked, smiling broadly. She knew perfectly well. Women always do. Oliver imagined a sign over his head, visible only to females: “Spent Male.’’
“Hungry,’’ he said.
“You’ve come to the right place. Good halibut tonight, lime and ginger sauce.’’
“I think it’s a red meat night.’’
“Lamb? Lots of garlic, rosemary and Dijon crust? New potatoes?’’
“Sold. I’ll have a glass of Kendall Jackson Merlot.’’ Claudine brought him a large glass of wine, extra full. Oliver was a regular. He ate there once a week or so on nights when he wanted to think. They left him alone to make notes and sketches, to stare out the window at the quiet street. He tipped well and felt that everybody was winning in the exchange—so what if he were spending all his money.
Candlelight gleamed from glasses and warmed the walls. The room was formal and cozy at the same time. He ate slowly, feeling calm and unburdened. He ordered espresso and Death By Chocolate, then lingered over Courvoisier. Verdi was aggrieved when Oliver finally got home. Oliver made a great fuss over feeding him and apologized for the unforgivable delay. He climbed the stairs to bed in a warm swirl. The next morning he was very thirsty.
Jacky was called away on business the following week. The week after that, in her kitchen, when the moment came, Oliver looked into her eyes and felt no impulse to surrender. She reacted immediately. “Not tonight,’’ she said. And then, “That’s all right. It doesn’t have to happen every time.’’ They chatted, and he carried her smile home across the bridge. It was warm, a bit troubled.
The week after that, she asked if he would meet her for dinner. “Oh, boy,’’ he said.
“Let’s go to one of your places, for a change,’’ she said. They agreed on Alberta’s.
Oliver was early. He sat by a window and sipped a glass of wine. He took a moment to recognize Jacky when she arrived. She was wearing a broad–brimmed straw hat that covered her face, a low–cut magenta summer dress, and leather sandals.
“You look terrific,’’ he said. She took off her hat. There were extra swirls in her hair and a small diamond post in each ear. Lip gloss accented the color of her dress—a pale but deep pink, fresh and elegant, white but tinged with the sadness of departing light; there were babies in it and the silver of moonlight on old barns. “Some dress!’’ Her breasts moved toward him.
“Would you like something to drink?’’ Claudine’s voice straightened him.
“Can you make a martini?’’ Jacky asked.
“I’ll try.’’ Claudine glanced at Oliver, amused.
“Dry, please. One olive.’’ The door opened and George Goodbean entered. He was thinking about something and didn’t notice them until he was passing their table.
“Holy Moly!’’ he said, looking at Jacky.
Oliver introduced them. “Holy Moly means he wants to paint you,’’ he said to Jacky.
“Really,’’ George said. “Who wouldn’t?’’ He threw his arms in the air. Claudine dodged around him and set a martini in front of Jacky.
“Perhaps we can talk about it another time,’’ she said, smiling.
“Yes,’’ George said. “Yes.’’ He walked up the stairs to the upper level.
“He’s been known to burst into arias,’’ Oliver said.
Jacky sipped her martini. “Ah…” She put the glass down carefully. “I like him.’’
“He’s a good guy,’’ Oliver said. “Good painter.’’ He told her about the casting adventure, leaving out the bronze valentine.
Midway through dinner, Jacky reminded him of their last session on her bed. “That was very special,’’ she said. “You please me in so many ways, Oliver.’’ She put down her fork. “I’ve been transferred. That’s why I was in such a bad mood that night. We acquired a bank. I’m supposed to run it, turn it around. I thought I could get out of it, but I couldn’t.’’
“Transferred?’’
“Maryland,’’ she said. “It’s a promotion, really.’’
“Oh,’’ Oliver said. He put down his fork. “Damn.’’
“Come with me.’’ It was part command, part question.
“No—I can’t.’’ He knew it was true as soon as he said the words. Am I crazy? he thought, looking at her closely. “It is you who are beautiful,’’ he said.
She tapped the fingers of one hand on the table. “Are you sure, Oliver? Money is no problem.’’ He nodded slowly.
“Oh, Oliver…” She brushed away a tear. He had never seen her cry. “Oh.’’ She shook her head. “Who trains who?’’ she asked the window in a tight voice. Oliver swallowed. He couldn’t speak. This was happening too fast.
“Sex,’’ she said, looking back at him. “There’s sex and there’s love—two different things. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes, if you’re real lucky, they overlap a lot. Most people settle for a little of one or a little of the other.’’ She pushed her chair back. “I love you,’’ she said. She stood up. “Oh, well.’’
She regained control. “Good night, Oliver.’’ It was a dismissal.
“Good night,’’ he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word wasn’t there any more. He felt terrible—honest, but terrible. He tried to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips, to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn’t right, or it wouldn’t have remained right. He stayed seated and finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.
He paid and climbed the stairs to George’s table. “The lady’s gone. I’ve taken the high road,’’ he said gloomily.
“My God, Olive Oil, she was…” George’s eyes expanded. “I mean, bazumas!’’
“Yes,’’ Oliver said. “Bazumas.’’
“That dress! That color!’’
“How about a little Courvoisier, George?’’
An hour later, he lurched home and put on La Traviata. George had diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. “The old goat,’’ George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.
Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself. What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye, shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on the floor. “Fuck it,’’ he said and lifted his right foot high over the box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. “What?’’ Oliver demanded of the cat. “What’s the matter with you?’’ The cat took two steps forward and let out another long low sound of protest.
“Huh?’’ Oliver bent over and put the box back on
the table. “All right, all right.’’ He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him. “Shit,’’ he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle. “Fucking box,’’ Oliver said with a certain amount of pride. He scratched Verdi between the ears. There was nothing to do but go to bed.
The phone rang. He answered, but the person on the other end was silent. He knew it was Jacky. “I’m sorry,’’ he said. She hung up.
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